


Groom's Bride

by WizardsGirl



Category: Outlast (Video Games)
Genre: Aftermath of Whistleblower, Alternate Universe-Canon Divergence, Anxiety, Depression, Empathy Projection I Guess, Engine-Induced Abilities, Gratuitous Craziness, Grief, How Do You Plot?, Hurt/Comfort, Insanity, Inspired by relina-ru on DA, Inspired by the Comic I'm So Sorry, M/M, Mental Instability, Mental/Physical Exhaustion, Mentions/Allusions of past Child Molestation/Rape, Mentions/Allusions to past Child Abuse, More tags to be added, Murder, PTSD (Post Traumatic Stress Disorder), Seriously elina-ru is amazing check them out, Slow Build, Torture, Trauma, Vaguely Psychic, Waylon is just too damn tired to care anymore, Why Waylon Is A Pacifist, fatigue, headcanons, injuries
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-07
Updated: 2016-10-12
Packaged: 2018-08-20 00:13:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,662
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8229607
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WizardsGirl/pseuds/WizardsGirl
Summary: Waylon never got out. Trapped in Mount Massive with Murkoff's men on the outside and Madmen on the inside, he's running out of batteries and willpower. He's just so damn tired...





	1. Tired

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ao3 took out my Italics... :(

It had been weeks, and still Waylon was trapped. He just couldn't get out of the hellhole known as Mount Massive Asylum, and he'd tried, God how he'd tried!

He'd thought he'd made it, had been in the jeep with the Walrider walking--walking?!--slowly towards him. Had made it out of the gates but, barely a half-mile down the road, he'd been forced to slam on the brakes and make a duck-and-run out of the Jeep and back towards the Asylum. Murkoff's goons had been waiting and hadn't hesitated to open fire on him, and so he had returned to the madhouse.

And so he had stayed, sleeping in vents and sneaking through the various Territories that the Variants had set up, trying to ignore the vicious headaches that made his eyes water and the disturbing, face-like inkblots of the Engine that flickered into view when he was asleep or tired or sick (He'd spent two days holed up in a vent with several blood-stained rags that had once been clothes, shivering through a fever and trying not to vomit. Damn chills would kill him before the Variants at this rate). He'd kept his camera with him, filming where he could and hoarding batteries but...

But there were only so many batteries, and he only had so much willpower.

He'd never been a brave man, always a pacifist first and a hero never. Hell, he'd met Lisa when her date had given him a black eye for bumping into their table while he was a waiter as one of those bar-and-grills that was more bar than grill, accidentally spilling the jerk's fourth beer on him. Lisa had punched her date right back, broken his nose even, and had then helped get an ice pack for Waylon's eye.

They'd spent the rest of his shift talking and laughing and...

Damn it, he missed her so much.

But...

But he would die here, sitting in this ragged, rubble-filled room far to close to Eddies Territory than he ever wanted to be. Especially after he'd heard the screams and whispers, because, apparently, not even impalement could keep The Groom from the search for his Darling.

Honestly, there were times where Waylon was at his lowest, and legitimately considered going out to greet his death, by either Firing Squad, Variant, or the Work Table of The Groom. Even now, he had a broken piece of glass next to him, because he never knew if he would need to either defend himself, or if he'd finally get up the balls to just end it now, before he could fall either to his own mind or to one of the madmen that surrounded him.

He was just so damn tired, of being scared, being hunted, being alone and cut off.

He missed the sun and warmth and genuine, soft laughter.

He missed his children.

He missed Lisa, his Wife and Best Friend.

He just...

He was so damn tired.

Slowly, he turned the camera, staring into the lens and turning the screen so he could see his gaunt, broken form in the Night Vision. There was only one battery left, half-gone already. He would use it for this.

"Lisa," he whispered, trying to smile but stopping after he saw how dim it looked. "I didn't make it... Forgive me," he pleaded softly, staring into the screen as a more genuine smile twitched his lips up a little, making the cut under his eye sting. "I fucked up..." He let out a stuttery breath. "I love you..." He whispered, and stared for a moment longer, before he turned the camera off and slowly set his hands in his lap.

A treacherous tear slid down his cheek, followed by another, and he choked, gritting his teeth as he tried not to break down completely. The Engine was buzzing in his head again, and he just wanted it all to stop-!  
He could feel Her Hand on his shoulder, shocking him out off his tears, making him go still. He could feel her breath on his ear as she leaned her head against his, a comforting, silent warmth against his back, just like when he'd wake up from the nightmare memories of his childhood. His shoulders slumped, and, without looking, Waylon slowly lifted a hand, fingers curling around hers.

"I'm so sorry, Baby," he murmured, exhaustedly closing his eyes as more tears slid slowly down his cheek. "I'm so sorry..." He clenched his eyes shut and leaned slightly back into he-

"It's alright, Darling," Eddie's voice soothed lowly, making Waylon's eyes shoot open as he froze in terror. Suddenly, the fingers in his own were large, curled over the entirety of his shoulder, the breath against his ear fever-hot, the head against his massive and smooth as it slowly nuzzled his ratty, filthy hair. He didn't even dare to breath as The Groom continued lowly, softly behind him.

"I Forgive You."

He couldn't move, frozen and horrified, the Engine Buzzing, and tears still slowly falling. Eddie moved him, the massive hand on his shoulder squeezing gently, ever-so-gently, before slipping out from under his own hand and cupping his jaw, slowly turning his head, and Waylon could no more resist the silent order to look than he could have faced the Firing Squad unflinching.

The Groom was smiling, not bright and giddy like before, but sweet and soft and tender, and he moved to better face the frozen Waylon so he could use both hands to cup his face, dwarfing the smaller man easily, just as always. His hands were warm and his thumbs gently wiped away the trailing tears as his pale blue eyes held Waylon's own green-hazel.

"Shh, my Darling," Eddie murmured, smiling. "There's no need for tears." Waylon stared, silent and still, and something in him--his head or heart or soul--just broke.

Weeks of running and hiding, of being terrified and hurt and starving, of being so utterly isolated and alone, culminated into a single, heartbreaking moment as he realized that his only relief in this whole damn place, was either Death or the man before him.

He broke, and the dam fell away.

"E-Eddie," he choked, and the tears came hard and fast as he sobbed, and Eddie moved with that unnatural speed, arms wrapping firm and warm around Waylon's back as he collapsed forward, face buried against The Groom's shoulder as wretched sobs escaped him. "I'm sorry, so sorry, I'm sorry," he wept, and didn't even know who he was apologizing to anymore, but it didn't matter. Eddie crooned lowly, words sounding distant as Waylon's mind went dark and his ears buzzed and all he could hear was the pounding of his heart and the Buzz of the Engine.

"Shh, shh," he felt against his hair as Eddie easily moved him, as if he weighed no more than a child, just like before. The Groom settled the technician in his lap, legs curling up on either side of him as the sobbing man's hands curled around Eddie's shoulders. Waylon couldn't find it in himself to care, at the moment, not when he could feel another person's heartbeat, not when he was warm and felt safer than he had in weeks.  
Not safe, just safer. He remembered the Hanging Room after all, but he was more than willing to ignore it. The comfort, the safety, the feel of a touch that didn't promise immediate pain or death...

It was worth the risk.

He didn't know how long he just sat there in the murderous man's lap, crying like he was a child again, but by the time he began to taper off into hiccups, he was just leaning limply into Eddie's vest-covered chest.

He smelled like sawdust, blood, and mothballs.

"Poor Darling," Eddie murmured softly, large hand slowly petting from the back of his head down to his lower back, leaving a trail of heat and pressure that made Waylon want to instinctively curl into it, but he couldn't even muster the power to open his eyes. "What horrors you must have faced while you were away. Don't worry, my sweet. I will keep you safe." Waylon could do nothing more than release a shuttery breath, feeling ill and drained and wrung-out. 

He didn't care anymore.

He registered the tenseness in Eddie's body seconds before the massive man was lifting him into the air, as if he was a child. Waylon let him, let him shift his body sideways into a princess-carry, his face still buried in his chest but his limps arms weakly curling against the Groom's shoulders.

Eddie began to hum that awful, familiar tune as he cradled Waylon close and started walking, his long, confident strides gently rocking the exhausted man against his chest.

"Let's get you back to bed, Darling," Eddie murmured as he easily opened a door, barely jostling Waylon as he went. "And you've no need to worry about your chastity, especially when you've been so wretchedly treated by those maniacs and whores," his voice grew dark on the final word, before returning to its soft, charming tone. "I know that I was an over-eager fool, before, but it's not every day the woman of your dreams falls into your lap!" He laughed lightly, and opened another door, this one darker from the sudden shading Waylon could wearily make out behind his eyelids. Then, he was being lowered onto what felt like a bed, his body rolling limply from Eddies careful hold.

"I was so eager to marry you, that, well, I never even learned my bride's name!" He laughed again, one of those 'aw, shucks' good-ol'-boy chuckles, even as he gently manhandled Waylon out of the bloody, filthy uniform Blaire had shoved him into after forcing him through the Engine. The make-shift bandages around the gut-wound the bastard had given him were exposed, and made Eddie pause. His large, blunt fingertips brushed against them, and Waylon made a soft noise in protest. The wound was deep, and stubborn. It was on the edge of infection even after these last weeks, his fever and lack of food not exactly helping.

"Oh, Darling," Eddie murmured, carefully pulling the bandages away, exposing what Waylon knew was the three-inch-long, gaping wound that was dark red, swollen and hot. Waylon forced his swollen, tired eyes open to squint up at the sorrowful expression on the madman's face, his large fingers brushing the sensitive skin around the wound.

"...Waylon," he choked out, getting Eddie's attention; the man cocked his head, pale blue eyes blinking slowly, the heavily blood-shot whites making them almost glow in the dim lighting from the open door.

"What was that, Darling?" He asked; Waylon sighed lowly, laboriously forcing his eyes open after a long blink.

"My name..." He muttered, Eddie leaning closer, expression sharpening with focus. "It's Waylon." And then he let his eyes close. He didn't care anymore.

"Waylon..."

He began drifting, the gentle, warm touches of the Groom not registering beyond a comforting warmth as he wrapped Waylon's stomach in new bandages and something, some kind of cold gel, that he dripping into the cut. After that, Waylon registered being manhandled into some type of nightgown thing and tucked under a heavy quilt. Eddie pressed a long, slow kiss to his forehead.

His lips were dry and slightly chapped.

"Sleep well, my Darling Waylon."

He drifted off to the low, quiet hum of that familiar tune.


	2. Adapt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eddie's Crazy and Waylon is just to tired to care about anything anymore. Also, FUCK Jeremy Blaire (Also, Waylon's new motto is "Fuck my life")

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AO3 STILL won't let me use Italics :( For Italics, check out this same fic on FF.N under the same user name and fic title

Waylon woke slowly, one sense at a time. His skull felt like it was filled with nails and cotton, stuffed and pulsing painfully, the Engine a low thrumming noise, like a low-pitched mosquito whine. His eyes were swollen and too dry, caked in sleep-crust and pulsing along with his heartbeat. His throat was raw, and every breath made a faint wheezing noise. His muscles ached, like after a cramp had been released.

He was wrapped in something soft and warm. There was a heavy, fever-hot band of steel around his chest, pinning him on his side against an equally hot wall. Scalding air huffed slowly against the ase of his neck, making the hair's there itch and the skin damp.

It was at this point that he remembered The Groom and forced his eyes open, blinking rapidly to rid them of the blurriness of sleep and the crust that caked them.

Sunlight was peeking past the cracks along the edges of the plywood that covered the windows, thin, fragile-looking beams of light that were filled with dust-motes.

Proof of just another day in the hellhole of Mount Massive.

The steel bad around his chest, when he carefully peered down, proved to be the possessively clutching arm of Eddie, fingerless gloves and all, and Waylon suddenly wondered when the other man had last changed his clothes, before dismissing the matter.

He didn't have any fucks to give about anything anymore, really.

Settling his aching head back down, Waylon shut his eyes tiredly. Despite what had to be the best night's sleep he'd had since before entering the Asylum, he just felt washed out. Just, completely exhausted down into his bones, his fucking soul and still his heart somehow beat and that was the limit of his ability to give a damn now.

Slowly, Waylon allowed his body to sink back into the soft bedding, allowed himself to be weak and simply accept the feel of Eddies arm on him, his heart strong and steadily beating against the technicians back as he slumbered on, dead to the world.

He could be weak. He was going to die here, after all. What was one more weakness?

He laid there and dozed for at least an hour, unable to fall back asleep but unwilling to try for full wakefulness. Instead, he just sort of... Drifted... Until, at least, his body protested, or, well, his bladder.

After ignoring the steadily growing pressure in his gut, Waylon sighed and shifted under the heavy arm Eddie clutched him with.

"Eddie," he croaked hoarsely, clearing his throat a bit with a wince. "E-Eddie." The Groom mumbled incoherently and snuggled in closer, curling his long legs up and throwing one around Waylon's own, pinning them down and making the technician's expression turn deadpan as he found himself held immobile now.

Just... Seriously?

"Eddie!" He hissed sharply, purposefully shifting so that his elbow grazed the other man. He definitely wasn't going to elbow him full on, not when he knew that the Engine had only enhanced Eddies strength and senses, just as he'd found himself able to run both faster and further than he had been before. The man could crush his entire skull with one hand and, as depressed and ill as Waylon was, he still wasn't quite that level of suicidal.

(Yet.)

Still, the graze seemed to be enough, The Groom snorting softly and jerking up a bit, blearily blinking around old, dry blood crusted around his eyes making them difficult to blink, and a sort of lost-puppy-confusion on his face as he peered around.

"Eddie," Waylon whispered, gaining the man's vague attention.

"Hmm?" The man asked groggily; Waylon shifted.

"I have... To use the restroom," he told him; he doubted saying 'I have to piss like a racehorse' would have gained him any points with the insane man. It wasn't "lady-like", despite the fact that it had been Lisa who;d introduced him to the saying in the first place, but then again, his wife had always been a tomboy...

"Restroom?" Eddie mumbled, confused, before yawning hugely, the tendons of his jw crackling disturbingly, before he turned a slow sleepy smile on the trapped Waylon. "Good morning, my Darling Waylon," he murmured; Waylon offered a flicker of a quirked lip.

"Good morning, Eddie," he greeted back. "I really have to use the bathroom, Eddie. Please?" He asked, his voice becoming notably strained as his bladder threatened to cramp. Eddie just blinked another moment, still smiling, before understanding dawned and he slowly heaved himself up with another almighty yawn.

"Of course," he murmured, sleep and the Engine's marks on his face making it come out slightly slurred. He rolled slowly, like a bear just up from hibernation, up out of the bed and staggered a bit, before offering his hand in Waylon's vague direction. "Come along, my Darling. A woman's ablutions are never something to be trifled with," he chuckled; Waylon slowly lifted an arm that felt like lead, and allowed his weak body to be pulled up and into Eddie's arms, his legs like limp noodles, refusing to hold his weight. 

"No worries, my sweet," Eddie reassured when Waylon let slip an annoyed noise. "I adore holding you in my arms," he murmured huskily, pressing a gentle kiss to Waylon's forehead as the smaller man huffed and went limp, allowing himself to be carried without a fuss. He couldn't exactly muster the strength to be more than vaguely annoyed, and that was more at his own body than anything, exhaustion and his migraine pumping a steady, pulsing rhythm through his head as Eddie carried him out of the room.  
The room outside of the one they'd slept in was filled with bright, warm sunlight that made Waylon both relax and hiss in pain, eyes clamping shut and face burying itself into Eddie's vest as the pain in his head spiked, the Engine revving like Lisa's old, beat-up truck, the one she insisted on keeping and re-fixing despite the fact it looked like he'd stolen it from a scrap heap and held it together with spit and old gum. The damn thing could rattle windows when it actually managed to start, and that's what his head felt like.

Rattled and on the verge of cracking even more than it had.

"Shh, easy, my Darling," Eddie murmured lowly, one massive hand cupping the back of his skull and slowly rubbing, making Waylon whine softly in relief. "After your distressful evening, it's no wonder you'd be unwell," he soothed, talking more to himself then Waylon, not that he minded. "Why, I'm not surprised that you're in such a state, although," he mused as she shuffled Waylon a bit to open a door. "You are such a strong woman, so resilient, and you've been injured and so very alone for so long, since you left my care," his voice hardened and turned into a soft, almost hissing tone as he ended the sentence, the muscles against Waylon's face tensing and being forcefully relaxed again almost immediately. 

"But you're safe, now," he continued blithely, sounding much better, almost smugly pleased about that fact. "And I shall nurse you back to health, like any good husband should, and I will court you properly now, no more foolish rushing about. And then, we shall be married," he sighed the word as if it was a blissful prayer, a dream and a caress combined and Waylon struggled not to grimace as The Groom began to sing what was becoming his damn theme song.  
Waylon had a feeling that he'd never be able to listen to Oldies Music again without wanting to hide in a vent and pretend to become one with the cobwebs...

"Here we are, my sweet Waylon!" Eddie declared grandly, shoving another door open with what felt like his foot, and Waylon reluctantly opened an eye to squint into the much dimmer light of what looked like a bathroom/shower room. "Let's get you settled and I'll give you some privacy, alright?" Eddie offered easily, his arms tightening slightly even as he stalked across the room to one of the cleaner toilets. "Now, Darling, I hope you won't be stubborn. When you're finished, call me," he ordered, voice hardening as he looked down at Waylon's half-hidden face, pale eyes gleaming, wolf-like, in the dim lighting, a fresh bead of blood beginning to form under his right eye as his expression grew sharply focused and clear. 

"I understand that you are a proud woman, but I will not allow you to harm yourself due to misplaced pride. Understand?" He asked quietly, coldly intense, and Waylon shivered faintly as a trace of the Engine seemed to echo in Eddie's voice, a flash of those horrible inkblot-faces flickering like an afterimage over the Groom's handsome face.

"I understand, Eddie," Waylon managed to say past the sharp pain in his skull that had him wincing and making an aborted movement towards his temple. "I'll... I'll c-call you when I'm finished, o-okay?" Eddie stared for a few moments longer, cold and closed off and radiating a frigid anger that was just begging to erupt...

Before it was abruptly gone, the Groom's face softening into a tender smile, tense muscles relaxing as he gently and smoothly set Waylon done on his feet before the toilet.

"As long as you know that I'm doing all of this because I love you so very much, my Darling Waylon," he murmured affectionately, gently brushing a straggly lock of the technicians filthy hair out of his face, smiling. Waylon watched as that single bead of blood slid slowly down the Groom's cheek like an omen.

"Of course, Eddie," he replied quietly; the Groom nodded, and pressed a kiss to the center of Waylon's forehead with a sweet, boyish smile before slipping away. He didn't close the door behind him, leaving it open so that Waylon could clearly hear him as his humming began anew and he began to rifle through what supplies were outside the door.

God, he was going to die here, and he wouldn't even know when or why, only that the Groom would lose his temper or do something 'rash' or 'foolish' and kill him accidentally-on-purpose, like a too-big kid with a newborn kitten. God, he was stuck with that guy from Of Mice and Men and he was the puppy instead of the smart, sarcastic little guy and he was going to get killed for somehow "upsetting" their "Relationship".

Fuck his life.

No, seriously, just fuck his life.

Heaving a low, frustrated sigh, Waylon awkwardly lifted the weird nightgown (it looked like it had been made of the softest curtains in the Asylum, twists of blue-gray-black paisley and patches of maroon plaid stitched together to form some sort of order with large swathes of dove gray. He felt like he was some sort of high-level hobo queen in a rich neighborhood or something, Jesus.). Carefully, making sure he didn't catch the nightgown, he sat down and did his business. With the door open and Eddie already in one of his more... Fragile, moods, he highly doubted he could get away with standing up to piss, and, besides, this way the damn nightgown wasn't in the way.

Finishing quickly, Waylon looked around the room, giving himself some time before he'd call the Groom.

There were several toilets, and a long open space that had shower heads. Sinks lined the wall directly across from him, as well as a row of lockers that had all their doors ripped off, and, down at the far end, were bathtubs, with shot half-curtails that would cover the essentials from immediate view but nothing else.

And, suddenly, Waylon was keenly aware of the filth that coated his body, the oily, knotted mess of his hair, and the gritty feel of his skin rubbing against the nightgown.

God, he wondered if there was still running water.

"Eddie?" He called; instantly, the humming and rustling stopped and the Groom poked his head around the doorway with a bright, proud smile, the look Waylon seen on pet owners when their puppy doesn't piss on the carpet and paws at the door to go out for the first time. Fuck, that's patronizing as all hell...

"Are you finished, my Darling?" He asked, stepping fully into the room; Waylon nodded, a little stiffly, and shot a look at the bathtubs hopefully.

"Is there any way I could bathe?" he asked; Eddie paused, features sharpening for a half-second, before the look disappeared behind a thoughtful smile. 

"Of course, my sweet, although I would have to stay. I wouldn't peep, dear," he rushed to reassure, an almost comical expression of panic flashing across his face as he waved his hands defensively. "I would simply sit outside the curtain, so I wouldn't see you, but with your condition and injuries, well, we wouldn't want you to slip and hurt yourself, would we?" He asked with that same good-ol'-boy laugh from the day before, that flicker of viciousness flashing over his face, there and gone again like a trick of light, leaving only the renewed pounding in Waylon's skull as witness.

"O-of course, Eddie," he agreed, grimacing as he rubbed his temples. "Is there... Hot, water? And soap?" He asked cautiously. Hell, he'd take ice water and spit right now, as long as he could get his skin to stop feeling like it was going to crawl off. Eddie hummed and wondered over to one of the gutted lockers, poking around the rubble at the base until he lifted a scum-and-dust caked bar with a triumphant smile.

"The water will take a while to warm, Darling, but in the meantime, I can examine your injury in proper light," he told the technician, all but skipping to the tub and turning the rusty knobs. The water choked out in fits and burst, reddish brown at first, but it eventually ran fluidly and mostly clear into the closest, least-stained tub. Waylon was still sitting on the toilet, waiting, as Eddie padded towards him with an easy smile.

"Up and at'em, my Darling Waylon!" He announced, and neatly scooped the smaller man up. Waylon refrained from huffing in annoyance, grudgingly settling into Eddies firm hold as the man trotted from the bathroom to gather up whatever supplies he felt he needed.

Honestly, he was getting really damn salty about this whole carrying thing. He didn't mind the rest, not at all, or the warmth and the heartbeat against his side, but, damn it, he was a grown ass man. Just because he was five-foot-seven and had definitely lost weight from his previous one-hundred-ninety pounds, didn't mean Eddie should be able to scoop him up without so much as a hint of effort, like picking up a bundle of cloth or something. 

Fuck it, why was he even getting pissed about it? It wasn't like it mattered in the long run. Just helped him get his strength up, helped him rest for the maybe-fleeing-for-his-life(or his dick) he'd have to do in the future.

Still...

"Here we are, my sweet," Eddie announced, plucking up a dented and blood-spattered white tin box, the red cross on the front half-gone with rust stains. Eddie plopped Waylon gently down on a table and, without so much as a by-your-leave, manhandled Waylon's upper-half out of the nightgown, the only thing preserving his "dignity" being the scrap of cloth the Groom offered him while looking away, which the technician wrapped around his chest like a towel, leaving his bandaged stomach in sight.  
"Let's see how the cut is doing, hmm?" Eddie hummed, using a pair of scissors he literally pulled from no-where--No, seriously, where the fuck had they been hiding?--to cut through the bandages and pull them away.  
In the bright light of the sewing-machine and table-filled room, the final, cruel act of Jeremy Blaire gaped, swollen and red and angry, little lines of pink beginning to snake away from it, infection starting to set in but...

But it wasn't as dark as it had been the day before, wasn't as sensitive, and Waylon made a low noise, eyeing it with interest as Eddie tutted.

"Really, Darling, you should take better care of yourself," he told the technician disapprovingly, pulling the medical box open and pulling out a travel-sized bottle of what looked like rubbing alcohol. Waylon grimaced and scowled at the bottle unhappily.

"It's not like I asked for Blaire to gut me," he muttered petulantly, but seriously, you try and do one good deed in this place and what happens? You get stabbed. Talk about karma, though, because the Walrider seemed to at least tolerate Waylon, but was extra vicious to Blaire, from what he'd seen before.

Eddie's hand clenched tight on the bottle, and the lid popped off with a sharp spray of chemical, making Waylon yip slightly, startled, as his green-hazel eyes locked onto murderously bright pale blue, the Engine shining bright and clear and cruel on Eddies face and in Waylon's head as the Groom leaned over him, looming ominously with ease.

"Who the fuck is Blaire," He growled, low and vicious, more dog than man, and Waylon heaved out a wheezy breath in shock as it felt like there was pressure squeezing his lungs.

"H-head of A-A-Asylum-m," he choked out hoarsely. "L-locked me... Here. E-Engine... Walrider k-killed him a-after he st-st-stabbed-" He choked off, struggling to breath under that alien pressure, head pulsing in time with his too-loud and fast heartbeat as he slumped backwards on the table, Eddie caging him in and radiating animalistic rage still.

"Did you fuck him, you whore?" He snarled out cruelly, and Waylon shoot his head jerkily. 

"S-s-swear, didn't-t," he choked out, spots dancing in front of his eyes. "H-hated him-m. E-Eddie-ie," he rasped out, wheezing. "A-air?" Eddie said nothing, and fresh blood dripped down his face, a drop of it spattering onto Waylon's cheek, the unnaturally hot liquid sliding slowly up into his hair.

Abruptly, Eddie's face cleared into a calm expression and he was suddenly sitting back down, wiping away the spilled alcohol from his hand as Waylon heaved great lungfuls of air, trying not to cough as his eyes watered.

"It's good that he's dead, then," Eddie stated easily, as if he hadn't just lost his shit and gone creepy rage-monster psychic or whatever the fuck that had been because fuck that bullshit, seriously. "I would hate to have to punish you, Darling. I can't stand loose women. They should all hang," he stated, the final word ringing with the echo of the machine and creaking rafters. Waylon just closed his eyes.

Fuck this shit.

"The bath should be ready now, Darling," Eddie told him gently, even as he placed a hand on the un-injured side of Waylon's stomach. "Just let me give this a brief rinse, and you can go soak. I'll clean it up and stitch it afterwards. We don't want you falling ill because of that horrid prick, now, do we?" He asked easily, and Waylon nodded.

"Okay, Eddie," he whispered tiredly.

The cloth Eddie rubbed against his gash was cold and burned like a bitch, but Waylon couldn't bother to do more than hiss, eyes remaining closed.

He was going to die here.

He knew he kept coming back to that, but, for fucks sake, it bared repeating and, the saddest thing is?

It was still safer in Eddie's Territory than elsewhere in the Asylum, at least until Eddie lost his shit and killed him, of course.

"There we go, my sweet," Eddie murmured, kissing the skin next to the wound and making Waylon twitch faintly from the ticklish/painful feeling. "You were so brave, my strong, beautiful Fiance," he crooned, scooping the limp form of the technician tenderly into his arms. "After your bath and bandages, I'll get you something to eat, dear, and then we'll tuck you right back into bed," he crooned softly, nuzzling into Waylon's hair as he carried him to the tub, using a semi-free hand to drag a chair along behind him, from the sound of it. "A nice, hot soak will do you a world of good, Darling, and I don't just mean in getting clean, although you did let yourself go while you were away," he muttered disapprovingly, chin rubbing almost too-hard against his ratty hair, making Waylon wince as it pressed with eerie precision over one of the goose-eggs he'd gotten fleeing for his life.

"Sorry, Eddie," he muttered into the Grooms chest, and Eddie cooed at him sweetly.

"It's alright, Darling," he cooed softly. "I know you weren't exactly in a good place, mentally or physically. I understand," he reassured, and Waylon felt the twisted need to both snort in wry laughter and cry, because the crazy murderer was telling him that his mind hadn't been in the right place. Eddie set the chair a little ways from the tub where the water was running, and Waylon opened his eyes wearily to stare, fixating on the wisps of steam that were rising from the porcelain as Eddie, humming his horrible theme song, stoppered the tub and began letting it fill.

Eddie chuckled, and Waylon realized that he must have looked like a half-starved puppy with how he'd been hungrily eyeing the hot water, or, at least, that's what the fond/besotted look on Eddie's face seemed to dictate, if you ignored the fresh blood and open sores, of course.

"I can see that someone's eager for their bath, hmm?" Eddie teased, chuckling lowly even as he stood and neatly manhandled me out of the nightgown, wrapping a chunk of slightly stained cloth around the technician that he tugged off of the back of the chair, like a blanket. "I'll leave you to settling in, my dear. I'm just going to collect a few projects to work on while you bathe." He pressed a long kiss to the side of Waylon's eye, almost directly on the tacky-feeling trail his blood left when he'd gone ape-shit about Blaire.

"Okay, Eddie," Waylon replied. He'd decided that short, simply answers were the best way to go now, and lots of repetition of Eddie's name, to remind him that Eddie was the only one he was talking to and about and with. No more fuck ups, no more muttering to himself, especially no more mentioning Blaire or anyone else...

Fuck, he just realized that that fucker almost got him killed from beyond the grave, isn't that just fucking fantastic.

Fuck his life, seriously.

Scowling slightly to himself, Waylon lifted his cover up to about his knees and carefully stepped into the tub, hissing as his cold feet were all but scalded in the hot water. Moving quickly, he pulled the curtain as closed as it could get, and tossed the cover back on the chair, before slowly, carefully lowering himself, making low, hurt noises as the hot water burned his skin, but it felt so fucking good that it was a different kind of pain now.

God he was so fucked up in the head, but fuck it because hot motherfucking water Jesus Christ...

"Darling, are you settled?" Eddie called, and Waylon leaned backward so that his upper shoulders and head was in clear view, groaning in painful relief as the water lapped further up his body. Eddie chuckled and set the scummy, disgusting bar of soap on the tub ledge, as well as a chunk of spare cloth that was obviously meant for him to scrub with.

"Take your time, Darling," he told Waylon fondly. "I would love nothing more than to suit here all day, if only to see you so happy." Waylon actually managed a semblance of a smile, utterly blissed-out from the heat and endorphin's.

"Thanks, Eddie," he murmured; Eddie blew him a kiss with another soft chuckle, and began to tenderly work on whatever it was he was sewing. It looked like he was making winter clothes, which would come in handy later, if Waylon lived long enough to see it, of course.

But he honestly had no fucks to give, t the moment, because he had hot water and was just going to enjoy it.

Fuck negativity.

Hot.

Water.

God had he missed hot water.

He zoned out and just laid there for a good while, before languorously cleaning the soap and slowly washing his body, humming happily and tunelessly as he went. By the time he scrubbed his head raw, the water was a disgusting rusty brown, but he didn't give a damn and just leaned back to continue enjoying it. He could wipe it all off on the cloth-towel-scrap later, after all.

"Darling," Eddie murmured gently; Waylon hummed in response, head lolling to the side to stare, half-lidded at the Groom, who didn't look up from his careful stitching, looking relaxed but expression focused. It wasn't the same as Engine-Focused, but it still brought Waylon out of his Happy Place a bit. "I know neither of us wish to discuss it, after all, it is better to forget about such upsetting topics, but... When we were to be married... Before," he slowly dragged out, his stitching growing sharper, eyes beginning to gleam as he spoke. Waylon's head ached as the Engine purred. "Why did you Leave Me?" He asked hoarsely, hands going still, muscles clenched. Waylon stared at him, eyes a little wide, and pained mind struggling to think of an answer that didn't leave him hanging again.

I didn't want to be hurt, I got frightened, I'm so sorry, it'll never happen again.

Opening his mouth, he answered.

"Because you reminded me of my Dad."

That wasn't what I was supposed to say, Waylon thought, distantly panicked and mostly startled, wide-eyed, as Eddie reared back as it struck, project falling from limp hands and huge, pale eyes locked on Waylon's own wide green-hazel, face blanked and making the blood and wounds on his skin stand out.

The Groom had never looked so horrified.

He had never looked so sickened before.

Waylon felt like throwing up.

He hadn't meant to say that.

"W-What?!" Eddie wheezed out, curling in on himself with terrified eyes as Waylon struggled not to cringe himself.

He hadn't meant to tell the truth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did I get the crazy right??? I'm going for Engine-isn't-Natural (Because Walrider wtf?) so vaguely-psychic-like abilities based around emotions and such??? IDK, you get what I mean. TRIGGERY STUFF NEXT CHAPTER, BE ADVISED


	3. Mirrors

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Waylons Backstory, Eddie has a breakdown TOO, and I go to bed WAY later than I should since i work in the morning... (Like a few hours from now, jfc)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OMFG I HAVE ITALICS
> 
> WARNING! This Chapter Includes Talks About Child Abuse, Molestation, Rape, And Murder. If This Is Something That Will Trigger You, Please Skip Those Scenes. There Will Be a Bold /\/\/\/\ Before And After The Specific Scenes.
> 
> Please Take Care Of Yourself
> 
> Also, for clarification, Eddie DID get impaled in this story. Everything that Happened in the games is CANON in this story, EXCEPT that Waylon made it out. (Seriously, Murkoff is willing to send in fucking SWAT Teams when a Riot happens and you're trying to tell me they wouldn't have road blocks just in case one of the smarter ones got out? Bullshit)
> 
> This will be dealt with later, but, as a treat, I'll give you something to think about.
> 
> Eddie NEVER lets Waylon see his Body. In the Game, only The Brides are stripped, the Groom is always Impeccably dressed, ALWAYS.
> 
> Think about that.

 

 

Waylon was frozen, staring at The Groom as the man tried to calm himself. It looked almost like he was on the edge of a panic attack, pale blue eyes looking even paler and blood trails drying on his pale face as he gasped for air, staring at Waylon as if _he_ was the one running around cutting off peoples dicks and Eddie was on the table.

" _W-what... Did... You... S-s-say?_ " Eddie wheezed out, slowly lowering himself to the ground, curling up, looking small and as if he was trying to cringe away from Waylon's answer.

_Because you reminded me of my Dad._

The Engine was making an almost keening sound in the back of his head, and his tongue felt weirdly loose and the taste of something bitter and salty called on memories best left in the dark, where the other monsters hid.

"I... I didn't... I mean..." Waylon tried, stuttering and stopping as he tried to cover, tried to hide. _He didn't want to fucking remember_.

"Please, Darling," Eddie whispered hoarsely, and shuddered, curling his large hands almost defensively around himself. "Tell me?" He sounded... Lost. Not quite scared, but almost plaintive, a child asking for reassurance and Waylon...

He slumped and stopped resisting, tired muscles going limp as he sunk down in the tub, until he could only be seen from the nose and up over the lip of the tub.

He was so fucking tired of this bullshit.

_('What was one more weakness?')_

"I had a brother, once," he started, voice echoing oddly thanks to the porcelain. "An older brother. Wesley. Wesley and Waylon, two peas in a pod." His eyes were locked on the faucet, on the slow dripping of water from the tap as he spoke, expression just as blank as it had been when he'd seen a therapist years ago, telling this same tale.

"He was six years older than me, and just the best brother a kid could ask for, you know? Played catch with me, taught me how to ride a bike, beat up my bullies, just... The best." He sighed lowly, breath shaky, watching the water drip.

"Our Dad, on the other hand, was an abusive drunk that had a nasty temper and a nastier backhand," he stated, closing his eyes. The Engine flashed behind his lids, the keening sound it was making lowering into a croon, inkblots dancing in his head to the noise. Vaguely, he registered Eddie shifting closer, a strange shuffle-drag-huff noise that made him think of his youngest boy when he was trying to sneak into the kitchen for a snack after bedtime and thought crawling on the floor past the doorway to the living room would go unnoticed.

God he missed them.

"Owen Park worked at a car-part factory," Waylon continued doggedly. "He liked to gamble and drink and get into bar fights, but he loved to beat on Mom and us even more than that. The more he drank the more he gambled, the drunker he got the more he lost, and the more he lost the more he got pissed off at the world." Waylon hated this, hated having to remember, but he was already this far and, who knows, maybe it'll save his ass from the Work Table or the Hanging Room again.

**/\/\/\/\**

"I was four the first time he broke my jaw for interrupting his drinking," Waylon muttered hollowly. "I'd just wanted to see what he was doing, and Wesley had gone out to play baseball with some of his friends. My Mom, she took me to the hospital, told them all about how I'd climbed up on the shelves while she'd been making me lunch, how I slipped and fell and hit my chin. Just an accident, nothing more," he muttered bitterly, a cold smile curling his lips, something dark and nasty bubbling in the back of his throat as the Engine _hissed_. "It was the first in a long line of _accidents_. I was such a _clumsy_ child. A broken arm here, cracked ribs there, smashed fingers, bruised kidneys, the list goes on." He sighed tiredly, turning his head to press his temple into the cold porcelain, facing away from Eddie as he bared his own demons to the possessed man.

"Wesley, he was older, he already knew how to avoid a beating," he murmured, "but, whenever I messed up, whenever Dad was ready to beat me bloody and leave me to rot, Wesley came in and pushed back, tried his luck, got Dad's focus off me and on him. He... He took the worse of the beatings for me, and still got up and took care of my own injuries before his own, when he wasn't unconscious." And he could see it in his minds eye, his amazing brother, with his brown-hazel eyes and dark blond, tousled hair, bloody and bruised with a broken arm, smirking down at Waylon as he wrapped the then-seven-year-old's bloody hand in bandages after he pulled all the splinters of a broken beer bottle from the palm.

_"See, Way'? A bit of elbow grease and a good pair of eyes and you're good as new! Hey, don't cry now, kiddo! Come on, it's not so bad, you know the Old Man can't hit worth a damn when he's this into his liquor. Come on, I'll read you that book you like, the one about the caterpillar that likes eating everything. Come on, big guy."_

"Mom did what she could," he murmured softly. "She'd keep him plied in his favorite food, keep the beer stocked, would distract him so we could get about the house without stepping on eggshells but... But he'd been beating her for years by the time I came around. He'd made her miscarry six times that I know of, probably more than that." Eddie made a sharp, wounded noise, a whining keen that sounded more like an injured animal than a human, and shuffle-drag-huff moved closer, the sound of his clothes brushing the tub loud as he moved.

"She tried, but..." He could see her, pretty face lined with worry lines and fading bruises, green eyes dull as she tried to smile at him, her brown hair in a short, wavy bob.

_"You shouldn't bother your Daddy, Waylon, you know better. Now, let me see those fingers. Honestly, when will you learn that Daddy doesn't like to be bothered when he's watching TV, sweetie? Here, all wrapped up. Go on, go to your room, I'll bring you some ice in a little bit, I've got to get dinner finished."_

"Trying wasn't enough, it never really was," He murmured sadly. "She'd give platitudes and excuses and would turn around and scold me, because I was usually the one to set Dad off. It pissed Wesley off to no end, and then he'd get up in Dad's face more, like he was trying to cover for my slips and... And I realized how brave he was, how amazing. He always had been, but... Wesley was like a knight in a fairy tale, only he was trapped in the Dragons cave with everyone else too and didn't have anything to keep him from getting burned. I wanted to be just like him," he whispered, his eyes beginning to burn as his brothers laugh echoed in his head along the crooning edge of the Engine.

"When I was ten, my Dad started coming into my room in the middle of the night." This time, the noise Eddie made had the Engine growling, a snarling sound leaving the mans throat next to Waylon's ear, but he couldn't look. He _did_ open his eyes a bit, just enough to stare blankly at the edge of the tub, tears threatening, but it was better than seeing Wesley smirking behind his lids.

"At first, I was scared, because I thought he was coming to beat me again," he admitted, tone dead. "But, I'd almost prefer if he _had_. Instead, he'd grabbed me by the throat, climbing on top of me, and hissed that if I made a noise he'd bash my skull in and call the cops and blame it on my brother. Wesley had a bad rep around town, because he was always beating up the kids that picked on us, so he was called violent and sick and dangerous. The cops would have believed them, and who was going to say different, huh? So, I didn't make a sound. I didn't make a sound as he tied me down and gagged me, as he yanked off my clothes and-"

" _Darling,_ " Eddie interrupted, voice hushed and tight and desperate, and Waylon closed his eyes tightly, gritting his teeth as shame and self-hatred coiled in the back of his throat like bile. He swallowed heavily, his empty stomach reacting as if he'd been fed oil, black and slimy and _coldcoldcold_ , and forced himself to continue, eyes clenched tight as a treacherous tear slid down his cheek to drip into his still-warm bathwater.

"When he _finished_ , he untied me and left me there, I wanted nothing more than to curl up into a ball and sob and scream and cry, but, as he was leaving, he was muttering to himself about how much _tighter_ I was than my brother and I..." He opened his eyes, anguish choking his throat as he found himself turning towards Eddie, looking up with blurry vision at the pale blue eyes that were staring down at him, expression equally anguished and utterly focused on Waylon. "And I realized that, if he did _that_ to me, he wasn't doing it to Wesley, and Wesley already got hurt so much and I just..." A choked sob escaped him, and he lifted a hand to cover his face, curling on his side so his head pressed against the tub side. Another sob pulled from him, a wretched, wounded noise that Eddie echoed, curling over Waylon protectively, as if to shield him from the memories, arms sliding around the technicians naked back and sinking halfway into the water, unheeding.

"I th-thought, that I could do this, I-I could be the brave one for once," he sobbed out, the cracked glass in his mind spider-webbing rapidly as the Engine fell completely silent for the first time in _weeks_ , leaving his head empty and alone and _broken._ " _But I couldn't do it, Eddie_ , I just, I _tried_ , I didn't tell anyone, I didn't let anyone see, I cleaned up and I pretended it was all okay but it _wasn't_ and... And..." Another sob, choked and wet and snotty as his nose ran and his shoulders heaved. He had to stop until he could catch his breath, Eddie making low shushing noises and curling over him more and more.

It took several minutes until his sobbing settled into hitching breaths and a limp, fatigued bod, exhaustion only building, and whatever strength he'd regained completely gone.

"...Wesley figured it out," he murmured tiredly. "Considering Dad's muttering and comments, I can't say now that I was surprised, but I'd thought, back then, that I'd hidden it so well..." Waylon closed his eyes, leaning his head against the silent Groom. "He went after Dad with a butcher knife, just, so utterly enraged I couldn't even comprehend it. It was like he was possessed... He managed to get Dad once in the gut, before Dad punched him so hard he went straight down. Dad... Didn't stop there," he whispered, the familiar horror and dread and phantom-terror coiling around his chest and throat, making it tighter with every breath. His voice came out a whisper.

"Dad, he pulled the knife out of himself, tossed it to the side, and his face... I'd never seen it so cold. Dad, he raged, he didn't go quiet, but he was then. I remember, hiding behind the chair, that I'd never been more scared in my life. He... Then he just... He started beating Wesley, while he was on the ground. Beating him and kicking him, completely silent, over and over and over again..." Waylon shuddered, the echoing sound of flesh smacking flesh roiling through his mind as he clenched his fingers tightly in Eddies vest.

"He beat him to death, there in front of me," he whispered hoarsely. "And, when he was finished, he turned towards me and, and I thought 'he's gonna kill me too' but... But he just stared at me and kicked my b-brother's body and... And told me that, that 'bad dogs get put down'. And asked if I was a good dog." He closed his eyes tightly, haunted by the after images of his blood-coated father staring coldly, so coldly blank at him, dark green eyes turned black in his hard face, his blond hair in a militaristic crew-cut, slowly clenching and relaxing his massive hands.

"I just nodded and stayed still and he sat back down on the couch and popped open a beer like it was nothing important." The worse of it done, Waylon went limp again, muscles trembling.

**/\/\/\/\**

"After... After Wesley died, things just... Broke," he murmured tiredly. "Mom blamed me. Dad was arrested and died in prison. And I just... I got shoved in the system, buried myself in computers. I got bullied a lot, because I wouldn't hit back, no matter what they did, but I just.. The sound of it," he whispered, shuddering. "I dream of the wet sounds, the blood spattering, and dad's face in the end... I just... I _can't_ ," He shuddered again. "I never want to be _anything_ like _that man_. I'd rather take a few punches and walk away myself, then throw a hit and become just a shadow of my Dad..."

"Oh, my poor Darling," Eddie whispered. "My poor Waylon." The Groom pressed a kiss to his hair, stroking one of his large hands up and down Waylon's back, into and back out of the water without any hesitation.

"I just... I'm _tired_ , Eddie," the exhaustedly numb man murmured.

"It's no wonder, Darling, with how heavy this discussion grew, and you're still recovering from your ordeals," he murmured. "I'm so sorry for bringing it up, sweetheart. "He pressed another kiss to Waylon's head, and the technician could only sigh tiredly. He couldn't even bring himself to care even a little anymore.

"You wanted to know about _why_ ," he muttered into the vest against his face, uncaring about the tensing muscles. "You tied me down, and you were going to hurt me. And all I could see was my Dad, standing over me, covered in my brothers blood and I..."

"Oh, _sweetheart_..." Eddie sounded genuinely anguished, lifting Waylon right out of the water and into his lap, instantly becoming soaked through, and Waylon couldn't even work up any panic about the fact that his dick was in full view of someone who wanted to hack it off.

Something hot hit Waylon's cheek, right next to his mouth, and he blearily opened his eyes and slowly looked up.

...The Groom was Weeping.

It was...

There was something about the scene that just _stunned_ Waylon out of his stupor, froze him in place and made him focus as he stared.

Eddie's pale blue eyes were paler when he cried, like the tears washed away the color like it was streaking through the dried blood on his cheeks. He looked heartbroken and horrified and just... _Grieving_.

"I'm so sorry, Darling," he wept, and Waylon blinked slowly, wonderingly as those massive shoulders hunched and the Groom buried his face in Waylon's bare shoulder, clutching the naked man close, like a stuffed animal held by a frightened child. "I'm so, so _sorry_."

_("I'm so sorry, Baby")_

Waylon slowly lifted a hand, eyes wide, and hesitantly cupped the larger mans face.

Eddie just held him tighter, bruisingly tight, weeping into his neck like a young child.

_("It's Alright, Darling.")_

"It's.. It's okay, Eddie," the technician managed, out of his comfort zone but somehow unable to help himself.

_(Massive hands cradling his face. A gentle, tender smile as thumbs brush away tears.)_

"I forgive you."

_("I Forgive You.")_

Eddie wept harder, heaving sobs that shook the two of them, but something had changed, the anguish dimming. Waylon just curled into his hold, uncertain about what he should and shouldn't be doing, and left his hand curled against the mans face, the side marked by the Engine. Unnaturally hot tears dripped against his skin, adding to the rapidly cooling trails of water sliding down his body to soak into Eddie's clothes as the man rocked them back and forth.

After a few minutes, the Groom spoke, a hoarse, choked whisper lined with relief and tears and making Waylon's head and heart and eyes hurt and the Engine purr to life again with a victorious rumble in the back of his head.

_"Thank You."_

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted Eddie to have a very strong reaction, because he just feels things on the extreme side of teh scale, you know? So, I tried to make that realistic, because, I mean, the "Love of his Life" just told him that he reminded "Her" of a man that would have been besties with his own Father and Uncle...
> 
> Thoughts?
> 
> (Also, according to the Outlast Wikia, Waylon is 6'1'/6'2"?! WTF, nope, not excepted, he is 5'7" and can fit easily in vents, and Miles is headcanoned at 5'9" and has to squeeze a bit, though the Wikia says he and Waylon are the same height. It also says Eddie is 46 years old but doesn't have his height, so I headcanon him as 6'8" because he is damn impressive and unf)


	4. Tangent

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Eddie is mostly back to normal, Waylon is kinda half-asleep and his brain rambles, and I have no idea how to plot this

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> God, how do you plot???

After their chat, after he'd calmed down, Eddie was strangely... Shy, almost. Oh, he wasn't suddenly a rational human being or anything. He still manhandled Waylon, first into the towel/sheet, then onto the same table as before, moving the technician this way and that, before using one hand to easily pin him down while he sewed up the gash in his stomach, ignoring Waylon's hisses and grunts easily. But, he would occasionally hesitate, pale blue eyes peering shyly at Waylon for a moment before refocusing on whatever task he'd given himself.

It kind of reminded him of their old neighbors fat, old min-pin whenever it got in trouble. Bulgy eyes huge and wet and imploring...

And creepy.

Definitely creepy.

God, he hadn't thought Eddie could get creepier, emotion wise. He'd been pretty easy to understand, if not easy to expect. He was happy, sweet Eddie who was all snuggles and kisses, and then he was the Rage-Quit Die You Whore Groom. There was even the occasional Vaguely Sane Mr. Gluskin The Tailor kinda mood, but those were rare and he'd only seen it twice, and both times had been when he'd been crawling through the vents to find a place with food, and had found Eddie after he'd come down from hanging a Failure Bride. The man had almost looked lonely, unsmiling and half-closed eyes focused on stitching up a tear in what looked like an extra vest.

Now, it seemed, he'd found another facet to the man named Eddie Gluskin. The "I Know I Messed Up Please Don't Be Mad You're Precious To Me" side that seemed like a mic between Happy Eddie and a desperately lonely child.

He doubted he'd see this side any more than the Mr. Gluskin side, and goddamnit he needed to stop mentally analyzing the psychopathic Groom before he developed some sort of automatic defense for each side and got even crazier.

Fuck, he would kill for some aspirin or maybe just a freaking cough drop in this hellhole, he felt like shit.

"There you go, Darling," Eddie murmured softly, pressing a kiss to the bandage he'd covered the new stitches with, lips lingering as that doleful look appeared again, peering up at Waylon from his stomach.

...God, that was fucking creepy.

"Thank you, Eddie," he told the Groom hoarsely; Doleful immediately turned into Happy as Eddie grinned. "I'm very tired, Eddie," Waylon informed the Groom honestly, wearily, and instantly found himself being scooped up into the Groom's arms again, the man crooning at him and kissing his forehead with a sweet smile.

"Of course, my Darling Waylon, let me get you something to eat and sleep in, and then you can go right to bed. I know women can be emotional, and how draining they can find it, so I don't want you to worry about a thing, alright, my Darling? After all, it's a Husband's job to care for His Wife." He stated it, a fact and a mantra together, and, for the first time, Waylon wondered who had given Eddie his delusional morals.

He'd glanced at the other man's folders, weeks ago when he'd first been trying to get out. He knew that the other mans childhood mirrored his own to a degree.

So, where did he get these ideals from?

...Waylon made a mental note to try and hunt down that folder again.

Eddie carried him back into the bedroom, setting the technician down on the foot of what seemed to be a homemade mattress, now that he was awake enough to actually notice. He was them easily manhandled into another mix-matched nightgown, again feeling like a hobo-queen, damn it all.

"I'll be right back, my Darling Waylon," the Groom crooned affectionately, kissing his forehead again.

"I'll be here," Waylon told him, hoarse voice sardonic, because he couldn't even get the strength to _stand_ on his own, so it wasn't like he'd just walk away. Eddie took it as... Well, something else, Waylon didn't know, but his face did that weird ass softening/proud thing, that utterly patronizing 'oh whose a good puppy? You are!' bullshit that he'd done earlier that made Waylon's hackles rising immediately.

"I shan't be gone long, my sweet," he crooned tenderly, all but skipping out of the door, expression dreamy.

God, he was weird.

Waylon carefully let himself fall back onto the mattress, mindful of the dull pull of his new stitches. He'd always hated them, the way they would tug and pull if he moved to much, how he couldn't get them wet because it would mess with either the string or the flesh, causing swelling that would damage him further.

Fuck, his damn ankle hadn't needed stitches after his _first_ run in with Eddie, it had healed up just fine!

Leaning up on his elbows with a grimace, he squinted at said ankle.

Sure, it had an ugly-looking red scar on it, and it hurt if he jumped or ran to long, and, sure, when it was cold, the muscles cramped, but it wasn't so bad.

...Fuck, he was fucked if he ever had to run from Eddie again, goddamnit, he doubted a convenient fucking pole is gonna fall from the damn ceiling again, which, by the way, how the fuck had he lived through that? And why wasn't he at least severely injured or something?

"Oh, Darling!"

Speak of the devil...

Eddie popped into the room with the same bright, giddy smile he'd warn when they'd first met, holding a tray with a bowl of something steaming on it. Waylon's mouth watered against his will at the smell of chicken noodle soup.

God, he hadn't had hot food in _weeks_!

"I hope you don't mind soup, my sweet," Eddie told him cheerfully, balancing the tray with one hand as he reached for Waylon with the other, grabbing him by the upper arm firmly and all but dragging him up the bed, making the smaller man grunt as he was unceremoniously shoved into a sitting position that made his stitches ache. "There is such a small selection of edibles here that are not... Hmm... _Vulgar_ , if you understand. And I didn't want to risk your delicate stomach after such a harrowing day." The Groom set the tray on Waylon's lap, and them proceeded to sit on the edge of the bed next to his feet, and proceeded to stare at him intensely, with that giddy smile in place and one of those massive hands curling around the very ankle he'd just been examining.

"Th-thank you Eddie," Waylon managed hoarsely; instantly, Eddie's expression transformed into that very same happy/proud/condescending look he'd worn just a few minutes ago, and his thumb rubbed firmly against the raw scar tissue on the limb, making Waylon twitch as he tried not to shiver.

 _God_ , Eddie was creepy.

"Eat up, my Darling Waylon," the Groom coached tenderly, smiling. "You'll need your strength, so that you'll heal faster, and I can begin to court you properly." Waylon stared blankly for a second, before turning his attention to the soup. There was a plastic spoon sitting in the soup, and he carefully used that to lift the first bite. It was cheap chicken noodle, one of those gross low-sodium ones that taste watered down.

But it was the first hot meal he'd had in ages, and it made him hum happily, closing his eyes to savor it. Eddie chuckled and rubbed his ankle again, but Waylon ignored him as best as he could and proceeded to enjoy his meal.

"So easy to please," Eddie murmured tenderly, reaching out and cupping his face, making Waylon still and stare at him with a cautious, careful expression, but Eddie only chuckled and rubbed his thumb against Waylon's cheekbone and pulled back, nodding at the tray again. "Eat, Darling." His voice, while still tender, was edged with firmness, and Waylon mentally shrugged before continuing.

It wasn't like he wanted to _stop_ eating the hot food, after all, and, besides, Eddie was right in that he'd heal faster with rest and good food.

Maybe his ankle wouldn't be as much of an issue, next time he had to run.

Eddie's hand tightened on his ankle, as if sensing his thoughts, and Waylon reacted automatically, the Engine rumbling in the back of his head and making his eyes tighten in pain as he looked up and offered The Groom a half-smile.

"I really like it, Eddie," he told the groom quietly, but honestly. "Thank you." Immediately, Eddie's grip when loose, and his eyes wide, the pale blue going lighter as his mouth went slack. He looked surprised and, as Waylon watched, a ridiculously bright red flush crept up the larger man's neck and lit his ears up.

 _Well_ , Waylon thought, honestly bewildered. _I made a psycho blush. Huh._

"I, well, that is to say, um..." Eddie stuttered, shifting, eyes remaining focused on Waylon as he lifted his hand to sweep over his neatly done hair, before he cleared his throat and turned away to look at the door, showing off the equally bright red of his neck. "I'll just..." And then...

The Groom fled.

Waylon stared after him for several seconds, utterly bewildered, before slowly going back to his cooling bowl of soup.

_He was so weird._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just to forewarn you guys, I had a horrible nightmare about this fic and now I've got to figure out how to share it with you guys because I am seriously traumatized. Sorry not sorry.


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